


Harbinger

by HoopyFrood



Category: All Elite Wrestling, Professional Wrestling, Ring of Honor
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Guilt, Heart-to-Heart, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Loneliness, M/M, References to Depression, Self-Doubt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:41:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21906895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HoopyFrood/pseuds/HoopyFrood
Summary: A Villain always comes back for his Hangman.
Relationships: Adam Page/Marty Scurll
Comments: 4
Kudos: 38





	Harbinger

Adam’s barely into his second glass of whiskey when there’s a knock at the door. 

He freezes, glass pressed against his bottom lip, suddenly gripped with panic.

The place is a mess. Old take-out boxes are piled high on his coffee table and the two suitcases he’d lugged home after the last Dynamite episode lay in the same spot he’d dropped them, their contents spilling out onto the rug. The kitchen is in a similar state, the washing up from before he’d left still sitting in the sink. 

He wasn’t exactly expecting anyone, it’s his day off after all, and he’s just about to resign himself to ignoring whoever it is when he remembers the case of IPA he’d ordered last night. He’d woken up with a craving for a particular brand he’d originally tried while touring England, inexplicably aching for the hoppy taste across his tongue as memories of dimly lit pubs filled his senses. He’d even splurged on expedited shipping so it would get to him as soon as possible, desperately needing that anchor of better times with good company to get him through the weekend. 

He relaxes, the tension easing out of his shoulders.

They knock again.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m coming.”

The polite smile he’d dredged up for the delivery guy immediately drops when he sees who’s on his porch.

Bundled up in an opulent fur coat with a black umbrella protecting him from the downpour staining the front yard dark is Marty Scurll.

“Long time no see,” Marty greets easily, his breath curling out from between his lips like smoke.

Adam clenches his fingers around the glass in his hand. He doesn’t even remember bringing it with him.

“What are you doing here?”

“Okay, not the welcome I was hoping for, but I’ll accept it considering the circumstances,” Marty concedes with a slight incline of his head. “Can I come in? It’s pissing it down out here.”

Adam stares at him, half expecting him to disappear if he even so much as blinks, then spins on his heel and retreats back into the house. He’s not drunk enough for this. “Knock yourself out,” he flings over his shoulder, far more casually than he feels. “You want a drink?”

“Nah, I’m good, mate. Thanks, though.”

He makes his way back over to the couch, collapsing down onto it with a sigh. Marty isn’t far behind, his hands now empty, the umbrella likely abandoned by the door so as not to track water through the house.

Adam watches from his seat as Marty glances around his living room, shrewd eyes taking in every little piece of clutter. He pokes a discarded pair of boxers with the toe of a finely polished brogue and Adam flushes, the whiskey not yet dimming the hot burn of shame. “I was just about to tidy up,” he mumbles into his glass.

“Sure,” Marty agrees as he sits down next to him, close enough that he feels the heat radiating from him. Adam’s suddenly, overwhelmingly tired.

“Why are you here, Marty? Aaron’s Creek isn’t exactly your neck of the woods.”

Instead of answering, Marty breaches the gap between them and tucks some of the hair that had wriggled free from Adam’s low bun behind his ear. Once satisfied, he then trails his fingertips across Adam’s stubbled jaw until he’s cupping his cheek in a loose hold.

“They’ve done a real shit job of looking after you,” Marty says softly, swiping a thumb gently under Adam’s eye.

Adam wrenches himself away. The remaining whiskey in his glass spills over his hand and he curses, fumbling it onto the table with a loud thunk. “I don’t need looking after.”

“Well clearly you fucking do!” Marty snaps, feigned politeness abandoned as he gestures wildly around them. “It’s 3:00 p.m. on a Friday and you’re drinking alone in an empty house. Oh, wait, sorry it’s not empty, because at some point between now and the last time I was here, it’s managed to become Virginia’s foremost landfill!

“Is that why you’re here? To look after me?” Adam questions with an unamused snort. “Surprised you can spare the time. Thought you had an Enterprise to run.”

“Don’t you dare,” he says, voice low, and Adam shivers. “You all left me, remember, not the other way around.”

Adam thinks back to Wrestle Kingdom, how much of a shitshow it was and how they _still_ left Marty behind. They’ve talked since, of course, even seen each other a handful of times when their respective schedules have allowed for it. Marty’s nothing if not forgiving when it comes to the rest of The Elite. But Adam still hasn’t been able to shake the guilt entirely, Marty’s confused _Hangman, when will I see you next?_ as he quite literally turned his back on him haunting his every waking moment for months. “Yeah, I remember.”

“You should have called me,” Marty says simply.

Adam rubs a hand roughly across his face. “And said what, Marty? That being the least successful member of The Elite is killing me? That as the weeks go on, I’m finding myself caring less and less about what happens to the guys? That it’s taking every fucking ounce of willpower to run out there and help when one of them is getting beat down?”

“Yes!” Marty shouts, arms thrown wide. “Because seeing you like this? It’s breaking my bloody heart.”

“So I’ve let you down, too. Good to know.”

Marty groans in frustration and pinches the bridge of his nose. “That’s not what I mean and you know it.”

Adam turns towards him, their legs bumping, and Marty’s hand automatically finds his knee. “Did you see the tag-match with Kenny? I’ve never felt that off-balance tagging with him before. It was like fighting beside a stranger. And it cost us the match. Another fucking loss on my record.”

“So what? It was an accident, a miscommunication. It happens. He shouldn’t have pushed you afterwards. God, that really pissed me off,” he admits, his grip on Adam’s knee tightening. “Look, you’ve beaten PAC, Guevara, and Sabian. You’ve won multiple tag matches, a fatal four-way, _and_ the Casino Battle Royale. You’re kind of a big deal, cowboy.” Adam cracks a small, involuntary smile and Marty mirrors it with one of his own. “I don’t think you’re feeling like this because you’re losing. Everyone loses sometimes. I think you’re feeling like this because you’re _lost_. Kenny, the Bucks, Cody… They’re all dealing with their own shit, sure, but they’re not alone. They’ve got people to turn to. Somewhere along the line you slipped through the cracks and there was no one there to catch you.”

Adam can feel his throat start to tightly clench and eyes fill with tears. “I— I’m not—” He can’t even _say_ the word lonely despite feeling it deep in his bones.

“Hey, it’s okay, come here,” Marty soothes, gently pulling him into a hug. Adam clutches at the back of Marty’s coat, his fingers sinking deep into the soft fur. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there to catch you. I’m here now.”

“Yeah, but for how long?” Adam asks wetly from where he has his face pressed against Marty’s shoulder.

“I wish I could say for as long as you need,” Marty admits on the tail-end of a sigh. “We’ve got tomorrow. A whole day. Just you and me. We can do whatever we want.”

Adam lets himself imagine the two of them spending the entire day in bed binging Netflix, or driving until they find the nearest Cracker Barrel. Maybe they could even go to karaoke. He’s missed Marty’s singing. He turns his face into Marty’s neck.

“It’s not enough. It’s never fucking enough,” he mumbles against Marty’s skin.

“I know,” he says, pulling away so he can look Adam in the eyes. “But soon we’ll have all the time in the world. I promise. A villain always comes back for his hangman.”

Adam’s not sure who leans in first, but when he thinks back on this moment later with Marty pressed up against his front, their bare legs tangled, he’ll realise it doesn’t matter. Because when they meet in the middle with a kiss that tastes faintly of whiskey and tears, he knows everything’s going to be okay. And maybe that’s a touch too naïve considering everything that’s happened, but very little makes more sense to him than the smell of Marty’s cologne and the hot heat of his mouth. His world, knocked off its axis by every loss and every empty locker room, has been nudged back into place.

When they reluctantly break apart, Marty presses their foreheads together. “When you feel like you need a drink, call me. When you can’t sleep, call me. When you can’t bear to be in the same room as the guys, _call me_.”

“Okay, I get it,” Adam says, playfully pushing him away. Marty falls against the arm rest in an inelegant sprawl, that familiar smirk playing across his lips. “You know, sometimes I sit with Jimmy in catering because he reminds me of you.”

Marty visibly recoils. “Jesus Christ, definitely call me when you find yourself doing that,” he says. Adam laughs brightly, the fact it’s not tinged with despair and four shots of Jägermeister sounding foreign to his ears. “Just wait. You and me? We’re going to take over the world.”

And Adam has no choice but to believe him.


End file.
